


The Opposite Of Longing

by sciencefictioness



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Standard Issue Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20118661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: It’s been hours, now.  Most of the day.He’s allowed.“Solace,” Steve says.  Waits.There’s no response.  Steve doesn’t expect one yet.  He runs his thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone, fingertips easing into his hair.  Steve is getting better at waiting, but Bucky hasn’t eaten today. Hasn’t drank any water, hasn’t taken his meds.Sometimes he can be coaxed into it— will open his mouth with a pliance that borders on terrifying, let Steve drop a handful of pills onto his tongue.  Swallow them dry, unblinking. Will close his lips around a straw, drink until it’s taken away. Eating is trickier, but he doesn’t fight if Steve takes off his clothes, and guides him to the shower.  Stumbles in, stands under the spray, lets Steve wash him.Steve doesn’t know if he’d do it for anyone else.Doesn’t know if it would be better, or worse.





	The Opposite Of Longing

There’s music playing from the other room. It isn’t anything he’d ordinarily listen to— a satellite radio station playing new releases. Tinny canned pop songs, thumping dance beats, a few slow ballads. Nothing over six months old, at most. He doesn’t know if that helps, but he figures it can’t hurt.

Steve tries to give it time. He’s getting better at waiting.

Bucky’s next to him on the couch wearing yesterday’s clothes, hair falling out his bun. 

Bucky’s a thousand miles away, glassy-eyed and staring at nothing. It’s not a fixed point. His gaze roams lazily, eyes drifting from one side of the room to the other, then settling for a while. There’s a good few days growth on his jaw, dark and thick. Steve lays a palm over it, scratches his fingers through the stubble. Bucky doesn’t react— doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. Sometimes nothing works.

It’s been hours, now. Most of the day.

He’s allowed. 

“Solace,” Steve says. Waits.

There’s no response. Steve doesn’t expect one yet. He runs his thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone, fingertips easing into his hair. Steve is getting better at waiting, but Bucky hasn’t eaten today. Hasn’t drank any water, hasn’t taken his meds. 

Sometimes he can be coaxed into it— will open his mouth with a pliance that borders on terrifying, let Steve drop a handful of pills onto his tongue. Swallow them dry, unblinking. Will close his lips around a straw, drink until it’s taken away. Eating is trickier, but he doesn’t fight if Steve takes off his clothes, and guides him to the shower. Stumbles in, stands under the spray, lets Steve wash him. 

Steve doesn’t know if he’d do it for anyone else. 

Doesn’t know if it would be better, or worse.

“Tidal.”

Bucky’s lashes flutter. His pupils dilate, then contract, eyes moving restlessly for a moment before stilling again. 

Steve remembers when he first got Bucky back. When things calmed down enough for them to have more than a handful of quiet moments. More than frantic kisses stolen between one fight and the next, faces tucked into each other’s skin,  _ oh my god, Bucky. _

_ I can’t believe it’s you. _

Bucky in his arms— he’s not smaller, Steve knows he’s not, but it feels that way. Feels  _ good,  _ to wrap him up and keep him safe. To be the one who can, finally, for once.

Steve remembers when he started drifting like this— out of himself, out of his body. Right beside him, and they might as well both still be frozen for all the good it did. 

Bucky goes so far away.

“Ambient.”

Bucky’s breathing changes. A sharp inhale, a heavy exhale. He doesn’t look at Steve.

He doesn’t look at anything.

Bucky says it’s like being buried in the ocean, and having to swim to shore. Everything is distant, fathoms above him, like a whole different planet. None of it has anything to do with him.

He isn’t sure he really wants to surface. 

Steve slides his palm down to Bucky’s throat, and presses two fingers into his pulse point. The steady thrum of his heart will always, always ease something in Steve. Bucky is  _ here. _

Bucky is  _ alive. _

“Horizon.”

Bucky’s heartbeat staggers erratic against Steve’s fingertips. 

It hurt, in the beginning. Steve railed against it. 

_ I’m not gonna be like them, Buck. I can’t do that to you. _

But he would stay gone for so long, and the longer he drifted, the worse it was when he came back. Mood swings, and nightmares, and flashbacks. 

_ I wanna be here. Now. With you. _

_ I’ve lost enough time already. _

Steve’s always been good at arguing with Bucky, good at getting his way. Not here. Not now. It’s not what Bucky needs.

Bucky has been doing what other people tell him for too long.

He deserves to get his way.

“Fifteen.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, then slam shut, tension creeping into the lines of him. He flexes his jaw. His fingers twitch. 

Steve felt like such an idiot when he watched the Winter Soldier’s mask clatter to the asphalt, and saw Bucky underneath it. He spent so much time watching Bucky move, watching Bucky fight. Entranced.

In love.

He should have known.

“Malice.”

The words stuck in his mouth. Once, twice. A dozen times, no matter how often Bucky assured him it was alright. 

_ You’re not trying to erase me, Stevie. _

_ You’re trying to bring me home. _

Steve laces their fingers together, metal on skin. It’s awkward when Bucky’s prosthetic is limp in his grasp, but he manages, as best he can. It wasn’t enough, once.

He won’t make that mistake again.

“Seven.”

It’s an effort to go slow. Steve thinks of divers, how they get sick when they come up too fast. This is a lot like that. Trial and error have taught him— Bucky startling, panicking, running on instinct.

Fight or flight is a hell of thing, when someone has as much of both as Bucky.

Easy does it.

Fuck knows nothing has been easy for Bucky in ages.

“Belonging.”

Bucky’s fingers tighten against Steve’s hand, chest rising and falling faster. Not gasping, not quite, but it’s close. He’s breathing through his mouth, shoulders tensing. The grip he has on Steve’s hand would be crippling if it was anybody else.

Steve thinks about how they were made for each other, then remade. How no matter how they’re shaped, they still fit together. Torn apart, and rebuilt. Cut open and stitched up again. Frozen and buried and erased.

Bucky is still Steve’s. 

Steve is still Bucky’s.

“Two.”

Bucky opens his eyes; they’re wet. Shining. His jaw shakes, almost imperceptibly. Every muscle in his body is alight with anxiety. His right hand twitches like he’s reaching for a weapon that isn’t there, then relaxes. 

The line between docility and violence is a tenuous, fragile thing.

Steve will follow him across it, and back. Wherever he needs to go.

All the way to the end. 

He kisses Bucky’s knuckles, the metal warm under his mouth, and lifts his other hand to cup his cheek.

“River.”

Every ounce of tension in Bucky relaxes all at once. His shoulders drop, his jaw unclenches. Bucky lets out harsh breath, blinking fast as his eyes refocus. 

When he looks at Steve, it’s like he’s coming awake after a long night’s sleep. He furrows his brows but smiles, leaning into Steve’s hand. 

“Hey, Stevie,” he says, voice gruff with disuse. “Was I gone?”

Steve shrugs.

“Little while, yeah.”

Bucky hums low. Steve leans in and kisses him.

“Back now, though,” Steve says as he pulls away, and Bucky nods.

He’s back, now. 

That’s all that matters.  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


End file.
